Wizard Spawn

by C. J. Cherryh

  One must have had a dream of voyages—of travel to far places—in one's golden youth, when such things were possible. . . .

  But the farthest he ever went was to the country.

  And, gods, that was not far enough for his troubles, not far enough for safety from a duke's son, his father's past, his own damnable stupidity—

  He had made another ten coppers since his midday meal, which brought his total day's take to eighteen. It was not the most he had ever made in a day, but—considering the rain and the fact summertime brought fewer illnesses than winter—not bad. He had broken even and seen a modest profit.

  But medicines did not happen by magic. Nor come out of moonfluff. Fees bought supplies. Customers did. And he was running low on both.

  Ah, well.

  Duran walked to the back of his shop, drew a large earthenware jug out from under a table, and lugged it back to the counter, poured white vinegar from the large jug into a smaller one, dropped wormwood leaves into the vinegar.

  Now, for the next two months, those small jugs would sit high on his shelves, the wormwood steeping in the vinegar. Duran plugged the large jug, carried it back to rear of the shop—

  The bang of a door down the way said, considering the direction and a familiar sound, that Zeldezia had returned from the Temple ceremony and was reopening her shop. Hladyr keep him from the woman's thoughts . . . a prayer, he knew, that would likely go unanswered. By now, she had probably told everyone she had met that her neighbor was harboring a Sabirn in his home, a wizard, no less, a practitioner of dark sorceries. . . .

  He had known the risk he ran in taking Kekoja in: or at least he had thought he had known. His neighbors were good folk, all of them, working as did he simply to make a living in Old Town. But Tutadar's words came back to him: no! Absolutely not! Not here! Not in my tavern—

  Damn. Why were people so fearful of what they did not understand or what was different? In all his years of dealing with Sabirn, Duran had not seen one genuine wizard. The Sabirn played a good game, some of them, and had people convinced they had far more powers than was true—any alchemist uptown knew those tricks; and any temple wizard could do sleight of hand, conjure doves—

  Or fire.

  "So, Duran. How's your afternoon been?"

  He winced, turned from his search after alum he knew he had, and faced Zeldezia in his doorway. She wore a bright blue gown, graced with some of her finest embroidery, and her hair was neatly done up in braids and coif—a handsome, an impressive woman, in her temple finery: except the sour expression on her face had not changed from several hours back.

  "Not bad," he said, keeping his voice light. "I've turned a profit, and the day's not over—not everyone went to temple."

  She looked at him, then lifted her eyes toward the room upstairs. "Still got that Sabirn kid up there?"

  Duran pursed his lips and wished he could say otherwise.

  "S'pose I couldn't expect you to come to your senses," Zeldezia said, shaking her head. "You're a stubborn man, Duran . . . you don't listen to good sense. You been upstairs to see what he's thieved yet?"

  "I doubt he's stolen anything," Duran replied, sitting down on his stool. "He's in no condition to do much but sit and soak his ankle. Leave it alone, Zeldezia. Leave it be. The boy'll go. He's just a kid with a sprained ankle. Let him be."

  "I prayed for you," she said. "I did. Them Sabirn can corrupt you, taint your soul—they got charms can confuse a man, so's he's got to do what they want—and he don't even think anymore. . . ."

  Duran snorted. "Now you're sounding like Priest Vadami," he muttered.

  "I told him to pray for you, too."

  Duran's heart constricted. "What . . . did you tell him?"

  "That you was needing prayers. That this boy's moved hisself in—"

  "Zeldezia!" Duran snapped, stepping down from his stool. "Can't you stay out of my business? Who gave you the right to prattle on to Vadami about what I do?"

  Zeldezia stepped back a pace. "It's my business too. Damned kid'll drive customers away from all of us!"

  "And who was to know if you hadn't told? He's not going to be here much longer. He's got a sprained ankle! He's not in anybody's sight!"

  "Listen to me, Duran," she said, squaring her shoulders. "You can't even see what's goin' on under your own nose. The boy's bespelled you, that's what he's done. Them Sabirn can do it, turn your mind to helpin' him, then mixin' god knows what, gettin' 'im moonwort and them whore's babies—"

  "Oh, good gods, Zeldezia!"

  "Vadami was shocked. He was real shocked."

  "Did you tell him the boy was injured? Did you tell him that, or only what you wanted him to hear?"

  Zeldezia's chin lifted. "I told him. Vadami says that don't make no difference. You're still comin' close to corruptin' your soul. You don't even know that kid's hurt. He can make you think he's hurt. An' this a 'pothecary's shop, with all these drugs and such—who knows what he can do with hands on stuff like this? He could put it in the public well—"

  Duran drew a short and furious breath. "He's not putting anything anywhere, Zeldezia. He can't walk! He can't stand up! Now I have business to attend to, as do you, I should think. And from now on, I wish you'd keep your nose out of my business, and your damn mouth shut!"

  "Go on and treat me like this, Duran, but I'll still pray for you. Blessed Hladyr will bring you to your senses." She spun on her heel and stalked to the door. "You lissen to yourself, Duran, swearin' at you neighbors, bad-talkin' a priest, bad-talkin' me for prayin' for you—what's that sound like, hey?"

  She left.

  "Oh, damn, damn, damn!" Duran slammed a fist down on the countertop. "What's she done to me?"

  A priest. A simple district priest, Vadami might be—but he had the ears of higher placed brethren, some of whom frequented the court.

  Duran leaned his head on his hand and rubbed his eyes.

  * * *

  Vadami sat at a small table toward the front of "The Golden Shoe," a High City tavern frequented by well-to-do merchants, an occasional petty lord or two, and lower placed dignitaries of the Duke's court. He sipped his ale, and met the eyes of his companion, another priest—his immediate superior.

  Priest Sorgun returned the stare, his eyes calm as the expression on his face. Vadami had chosen the inn as a place to talk because he felt comfortable here, and it was neutral territory, where neighbors paid little attention to him and his companion: priests from the Temple often came here in the afternoon or evening.

  "You wanted advice, Vadami."

  "Aye." It was the ale—Vadami knew, in some distant part of his mind, that he had imbibed more than he should. It was the Duke's heir's name-day.

  "What is it you want to talk about?"

  "My feelings, Superior."

  "What feelings?"

  "Rebellious thoughts, Superior. Discontent. Envy. I—know that's unworthy of me."

  Sorgun lifted an eyebrow. "What—kind of thoughts?"

  Vadami glanced over his shoulder. Several fellow priests sat at a table toward the back of the room: ducal favorites, those priests, whose parishes incorporated the better sections of town.

  "Do you see those men, Superior?" he asked, indicating the priests with a motion of his head. "I've served Hladyr from an early age. I gave up what could have been a promising career as a merchant. I'm no less a priest than those court favorites, and yet what do I have to show for it? My parish is Old Town, where donations—while sincere—are next to nothing."

  "Each according to their means—"

  Vadami set his mug to one side, and leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "But why have I been allotted such a position in life, Superior? I'm smarter than any priests I know, and I love the Shining One with equal fervor. Why have I been doomed to minister to Old Town?"

  "Ah, Vadami . . . not everyone gets what he wants from life. Hladyr must test some of us more than others."

  "But, why me?" Vadami straightened in his
chair. "Why not someone else?"

  "Patience," Sorgun said quietly. "We all have to start out somewhere. You're young, Vadami, only twenty-five, you have years of ministering before you. Many chances."

  "I know, Superior." Vadami lowered his head. "But there are times. . . ." His voice trailed off, and he looked up at his companion. "Patience is difficult."

  "Be strong. This is but a test put before you." A faint smile touched Sorgun's face. "And, whether you believe it or not, it's a test other priests have faced."

  Loud laughter rode over Sorgun's words. Vadami heard a group of men at the table next to his discussing the near riot that had taken place in the Slough the day before. Vadami made a sign of aversion, turning that fate far from his life. Gods bless! Worse than ministering to Old Town was the saving of souls in the Slough.

  "A wizard," the men were saving. "A Sabirn wizard, bold as brass."

  Vadami took another gulp of ale. Sabirn. Warlocks! Traffickers in the dark arts! He hated the Sabirn nearly as much as he feared them. And now, from what the seamstress Zeldezia had told him, it was not only the Slough that harbored them. . . .

  It was not only the Slough where sedition and riot threatened good folk.

  A dismal future. If the temple blamed him—

  "You do a good work, Vadami."

  Vadami's face went hot. "One tries, Superior. One desperately tries. But there are deaf ears."

  "Specifically?"

  "Have I ever told you about Duran?"

  "The nobleman."

  "Ex-noble. He's poor as his Old Town neighbors now. But—"

  "Is he a problem?" Sorgun asked.

  "His shop is a focus for—midnight visitors. Whores. Persons with—" Vadami felt his face go hot. "Disease."

  "He's an apothecary, isn't he?"

  Vadami squared his shoulders. "He deals with Sabirn. Trades with them. Harbors them."

  Sorgun's face went very still. "Have you advised him?"

  "Aye. More than once. Duran listens; then—"

  "He still sees them?"

  "Aye. There's this old man who begs at the tavern across the street, a hanger-on, sweeps up—"

  "Sabirn, you mean?" Sorgun's gaze had grown uncomfortably direct.

  Vadami chose his next words with care. "A true daughter, a woman named Zeldezia: she's very pious, very reliable, always at temple. I saw her today. She asked for intercession, for—prayers for the neighborhood. She told me Duran actually has a Sabirn boy living in his house."

  "Go on."

  "Zeldezia said there was some kind of attack. Duran beat off the attackers, drove them off, took the boy into his shop—" Vadami stammered, looked at the table. "Into—" he coughed. "Into his bed, by what this good woman says."

  Sorgun said, "Tell me about this—resident at the tavern."

  Vadami blinked, felt his face still over-warm. Sorgun's question was hardly the shocked response he expected. "Everyone calls him 'Old Man,' and he lives inside the door of the tavern. 'The Swimming Cat.' He's a storyteller. A menial. Aside from that, I don't know much about him."

  "How long has he lived there?"

  "Years." Vadami shrugged. "No one pays much attention to him. He's obviously harmless—but this boy—"

  Sorgun nodded slowly. "Vadami . . . I want you to feel you can talk to me like this at any time, for any reason. That's what I'm here for. Isn't it?

  "Yes, Superior."

  "Keep an eye on this Duran." Sorgun lifted his mug of ale. "I do want you to keep careful watch on this Old Man."

  "The old man's no problem. He's been there for—"

  "Just watch him. I want you to tell me if you see him talking to anyone who doesn't live in Old Town."

  "Aye." Vadami drained his mug to cover his confusion. If Sorgun was concerned about Old Man, then—then, all things considered, it certainly would do him well to be equally concerned.

  * * *

  Ladirno flung open the windows to catch what breeze blew in from the harbor, but there was little of it: the air even in this large room was stifling in its closeness. He sat down in his chair, loosened the collar of his tunic, and stretched his feet out before him. Temple bells had just rung out, announcing the tenth hour, well into afternoon, but Wellhyrn had not appeared yet.

  Making me wait, just like he does everyone. Damn! He can get to anyone with his airs . . . even me, who first championed him at court.

  At times Ladirno questioned his friendship with the younger man. They both shared the same attitudes and philosophies of life, but there was a malicious streak in Wellhyrn that Ladirno did not share.

  And a self-centeredness and carelessness of others' annoyance.

  He yawned, drowsy in the summer afternoon heat, and shook his head. As long as he had his place in life established and felt moderately unthreatened, he was fairly content. Wellhyrn, on the other hand, was always busy trying to keep anyone else from the same step on the ladder.

  Steps sounded in the hallway outside, and Ladirno looked up.

  Wellhyrn at last . . . he would recognize those footsteps anywhere. "Come in," he called out, before the knock.

  The door opened. "I've got it!" Wellhyrn said with uncharacteristic fervor, stepping into the room. He opened his belt purse and took out a lump of something that looked vaguely, from Ladirno's viewpoint, like a rock.

  Ladirno took the object Wellhyrn gave him. Weighing it in his hands, he smiled. "It looks good, very good. It should fool the Duke, or anyone uninitiated."

  Wellhyrn's green eyes sparkled in the sunlight. "Damn right it should. It took me long enough to bury that lump of gold in mud and coat it. But it took the firings. Now, when we set up our furnace and insert this 'rock' of ours, a little tap of the tongs and we'll have gold to reward the Duke's patience."

  "After which the Duke, of course, will reward us." Ladirno handed the object back to Wellhyrn. "Well, sit down. Sit down. Wine? I have a new bottle."

  Wellhyrn put the "rock" back in his belt pouch, nodded, and took a chair, expecting to be waited on as usual. Ladirno smothered angry feelings: if the relationship he shared with Wellhyrn was not so profitable, he would gladly put the younger man in his place.

  He got up, poured two glasses of wine, and walked to Wellhyrn's side. "It's a masterful job you did," he said, as Wellhyrn took the glass.

  "Of course. After all, I am a master at what I do." Wellhyrn took a sip of the wine, then leaned back in the chair, a thin smile touching his too-handsome face. "I wonder what old Duran did when he found my two silver pieces?"

  Ladirno shrugged, sitting down again, and drinking his wine. "Kept them, I'll bet."

  A momentary expression of anger twisted Wellhyrn's face. "That's not what I meant, Ladirno," he said, swirling the wine in his glass. "I meant . . . I wonder what he thought."

  "Hard telling." Ladirno looked carefully at his companion: Wellhyrn had something on his mind, something bothering him. "Why are you so angry at Duran all the time?" he asked casually. "He's certainly no threat to folk like you or me."

  "Ah, but you don't know that, do you?" Wellhyrn sat up straight, leaned forward, one elbow on the chair-arm. "I think he very well could become dangerous. You know how he talks to those damned Sabirn all the time."

  Ladirno lifted on eyebrow. "That's a threat?"

  "Have you forgotten what we heard at court? The Sabirn plot? The wizards trying to bring down the kingdom?"

  "Gods. Sabirn with wizardry. Pigs will fly."

  "Use your head, man," Wellhyrn snapped. "You and I both know that once the Sabirn ruled an empire, that they enjoyed a level of life that we haven't rivaled."

  "Aye . . . but that was a thousand years ago. Their empire fell, man! What good were their wizards?"

  "Did they fall?" Wellhyrn cocked his head. "Or did they somehow preserve their secrets, their knowledge? Do they have wizards who remember techniques from their past? What if—" He lifted a hand to keep Ladirno silent. "—they actually are able to do things that we can't? What if their w
izards are stronger than ours?" Wellhyrn leaned forward, jabbed Ladirno's arm with his finger. "More to the point, dear colleague,—what if they have alchemists among them? What if that's what Duran's after?"

  Ladirno made a rude noise and took another drink. "Rumor. Rumor on both counts. Nothing's ever been proved that alchemy ever predated—"

  "Not if the secrets went with them! I'm saying 'what if.' I'm saying what if they do have such secrets—or they hold out secrets, what if that's where Duran's father got his information? Duran might make himself quite, quite something, thumb his nose at the Guild—"

  "Huhn."

  "Listen to me. Duran's got every reason to be angry at the ducal family after what happened to his parents. He could be involved in this plot . . . an Ancar protecting Sabirn in an Ancar city. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

  Ladirno contemplated his glass. Wellhyrn might be right; the rumor of Sabirn wizards seemed genuine enough—at least that the Sabirn harbored secrets. At least that few people—save Duran—ever gave them more than an angry glance.

  And an alchemist outside the guild—came up with a cure for the pox—

  Plot against the kingdom aside, if Wellhyrn was right, and if the Sabirn did possess superior alchemistic knowledge, and if Duran discovered it . . . in the face of the Guild—in spite of the Guild . . .

  Ladirno scowled. His position at court, Wellhyrn's, and the other alchemists, would be worthless.

  To say nothing of the subterranean power Duran might wield having allied himself with subversives, plots against his own race, his own kind—

  "Ah-h-h." Wellhyrn smiled coldly. "So you do see it."

  "I see a possibility." Ladirno gestured sharply. "But I think you're overreacting, Wellhyrn. Duran's a fool, a virtual hermit, nothing left in life besides ministering to the poor of Old Town. He's dealt with Sabirn for years now. If they had such secrets, don't you think he would have found something more important than a pox-cure?"

  "Maybe he has."

  "Mmmn."

  "I'm simply telling you why I think we should—contain this problem. I don't mean by doing anything—criminal: gods know we don't want a confrontation: but just by doing little things, like leaving the silver in his shop. Keep him unsure of himself and his place in life. Keep him questioning why we're living so well, and he isn't. Let him make a mistake."